A Stab at Poetry

So last night...I woke up with a craving for fruit juice...went back to bed and wrote poetry. Oh dear...

The spoken word is a difficult thing,
I beg, I say,
To differ, to dream,
For is not each day poetry?
Full of sound, sense and feeling?
And so I stand, back turned,
Bearing the weight of my world on my shoulders,
Trudging silently,
Living my life as I have seen many,
But what, I ask, is my difference?
How am I to find what others have lost?
In this cycle of colours,
Year after year,
Green, to gold, to brown,
A handful of fleeting moments,
A spiral of senses,
And what world is it,
Where war is deemed fair?
Love for the chosen few,
Where am I supposed to fit?
A piece among many,
in a box of seven billion.

Moral of the story: Don't drink cranberry juice at 4am. Bad idea.

''So take my words, they're all I have,
'Cause fate is written in the stars,
Give me courage, take my hand, take my heart''


DFTBA
Your British Blogger,
Kirsten x